Quentin Durward, by Walter Scott

Chapter 16

The Vagrant

I am as free as Nature first made man, Ere the base laws of servitude began When wild in woods the noble savage
ran.

THE CONQUEST OF GRENADA

While Quentin held the brief communication with the ladies necessary to assure them that this
extraordinary addition to their party was the guide whom they were to expect on the King’s part, he noticed (for he was
as alert in observing the motions of the stranger, as the Bohemian could be on his part) that the man not only turned
his head as far back as he could to peer at them, but that, with a singular sort of agility, more resembling that of a
monkey than of a man, he had screwed his whole person around on the saddle so as to sit almost sidelong upon the horse,
for the convenience, as it seemed, of watching them more attentively.

Not greatly pleased with this manoeuvre, Quentin rode up to the Bohemian and said to him, as he suddenly assumed his
proper position on the horse, “Methinks, friend, you will prove but a blind guide, if you look at the tail of your
horse rather than his ears.”

“And if I were actually blind,” answered the Bohemian, “I could not the less guide you through any county in this
realm of France, or in those adjoining to it.”

“Yet you are no Frenchman,” said the Scot.

“I am not,” answered the guide.

“What countryman, then, are you,” demanded Quentin.

“I am of no country,” answered the guide.

“How! of no country?” repeated the Scot.

“No,” answered the Bohemian, “of none. I am a Zingaro, a Bohemian, an Egyptian, or whatever the Europeans, in their
different languages, may choose to call our people, but I have no country.”

“Are you a Christian?” asked the Scotchman.

The Bohemian shook his head.

“Dog,” said Quentin (for there was little toleration in the spirit of Catholicism in those days), “dost thou worship
Mahoun?” 122

“No,” was the indifferent and concise answer of the guide, who neither seemed offended nor surprised at the young
man’s violence of manner.

“Are you a Pagan, then, or what are you?”

“I have no religion,” answered the Bohemian.

Durward started back, for though he had heard of Saracens and Idolaters, it had never entered into his ideas or
belief that any body of men could exist who practised no mode of worship whatever. He recovered from his astonishment
to ask his guide where he usually dwelt.

“Wherever I chance to be for the time,” replied the Bohemian. “I have no home.”

“How do you guard your property?”

“Excepting the clothes which I wear, and the horse I ride on, I have no property.”

“Yet you dress gaily, and ride gallantly,” said Durward. “What are your means of subsistence?”

“I eat when I am hungry, drink when I am thirsty, and have no other means of subsistence than chance throws in my
Way,” replied the vagabond.

“Under whose laws do you live?”

“I acknowledge obedience to none, but an it suits my pleasure or my necessities,” said the Bohemian.

“Who is your leader, and commands you?”

“The father of our tribe — if I choose to obey him,” said the guide, “otherwise I have no commander.”

“You are, then,” said the wondering querist, “destitute of all that other men are combined by — you have no law, no
leader, no settled means of subsistence, no house or home. You have, may Heaven compassionate you, no country — and,
may Heaven enlighten and forgive you, you have no God! What is it that remains to you, deprived of government, domestic
happiness, and religion?”

“I have liberty,” said the Bohemian “I crouch to no one, obey no one — respect no one — I go where I will — live as
I can — and die when my day comes.”

“But you are subject to instant execution, at the pleasure of the Judge?”

“Be it so,” returned the Bohemian, “I can but die so much the sooner.”

“In my thoughts,” said the Bohemian, “which no chains can bind, while yours, even when your limbs are free, remain
fettered by your laws and your superstitions, your dreams of local attachment, and your fantastic visions of civil
policy. Such as I are free in spirit when our limbs are chained. — You are imprisoned in mind even when your limbs are
most at freedom.”

“Yet the freedom of your thoughts,” said the Scot, “relieves not the pressure of the gyves on your limbs.”

“For a brief time that may be endured,” answered the vagrant, “and if within that period I cannot extricate myself,
and fail of relief from my comrades, I can always die, and death is the most perfect freedom of all.”

There was a deep pause of some duration, which Quentin at length broke by resuming his queries.

“Yours is a wandering race, unknown to the nations of Europe. — Whence do they derive their origin?”

“I may not tell you,” answered the Bohemian.

“When will they relieve this kingdom from their presence, and return to the land from whence they came?” said the
Scot.

“When the day of their pilgrimage shall be accomplished,” replied his vagrant guide.

“Are you not sprung from those tribes of Israel which were carried into captivity beyond the great river Euphrates?”
said Quentin, who had not forgotten the lore which had been taught him at Aberbrothick.

“Had we been so,” answered the Bohemian, “we had followed their faith and practised their rites.”

“What is thine own name?” said Durward.

“My proper name is only known to my brethren. The men beyond our tents call me Hayraddin Maugrabin — that is,
Hayraddin the African Moor.”

“Thou speakest too well for one who hath lived always in thy filthy horde,” said the Scot.

“I have learned some of the knowledge of this land,” said Hayraddin. “When I was a little boy, our tribe was chased
by the hunters after human flesh. An arrow went through my mother’s head, and she died. I was entangled in the blanket
on her shoulders, and was taken by the pursuers. A priest begged me from the Provost’s archers, and trained me up in
Frankish learning for two or three years.”

“How came you to part with him?” demanded Durward.

“I stole money from him — even the God which he worshipped,” answered Hayraddin, with perfect composure, “he
detected me, and beat me — I stabbed him with my knife, fled to the woods, and was again united to my people.”

“Wretch!” said Durward, “did you murder your benefactor?”

“What had he to do to burden me with his benefits? — The Zingaro boy was no house bred cur, to dog the heels of his
master, and crouch beneath his blows, for scraps of food:— He was the imprisoned wolf whelp, which at the first
opportunity broke his chain, rended his master, and returned to his wilderness.”

There was another pause, when the young Scot, with a view of still farther investigating the character and purpose
of this suspicious guide, asked Hayraddin whether it was not true that his people, amid their ignorance, pretended to a
knowledge of futurity which was not given to the sages, philosophers, and divines of more polished society.

“We pretend to it,” said Hayraddin, “and it is with justice.”

“How can it be that so high a gift is bestowed on so abject a race?” said Quentin.

“Can I tell you?” answered Hayraddin. — “Yes, I may indeed, but it is when you shall explain to me why the dog can
trace the footsteps of a man, while man, the nobler animal, hath not power to trace those of the dog. These powers,
which seem to you so wonderful, are instinctive in our race. From the lines on the face and on the hand, we can tell
the future fate of those who consult us, even as surely as you know from the blossom of the tree in spring what fruit
it will bear in the harvest.”

“I doubt of your knowledge, and defy you to the proof.”

“Defy me not, Sir Squire,” said Hayraddin Maugrabin. “I can tell you that, say what you will of your religion, the
Goddess whom you worship rides in this company.”

“Peace!” said Quentin, in astonishment, “on thy life, not a word farther, but in answer to what I ask thee. — Canst
thou be faithful?”

“I can — all men can,” said the Bohemian.

“But wilt thou be faithful?”

“Wouldst thou believe me the more should I swear it?” answered Maugrabin, with a sneer.

“Thy life is in my hand,” said the young Scot.

“Strike, and see whether I fear to die,” answered the Bohemian.

“Will money render thee a trusty guide?” demanded Durward.

“If I be not such without it, no,” replied the heathen.

“Then what will bind thee?” asked the Scot.

“Kindness,” replied the Bohemian.

“Shall I swear to show thee such, if thou art true guide to us on this pilgrimage?”

“No,” replied Hayraddin, “it were extravagant waste of a commodity so rare. To thee I am bound already.”

“How?” exclaimed Durward, more surprised than ever.

“Remember the chestnut trees on the banks of the Cher! The victim whose body thou didst cut down was my brother,
Zamet the Maugrabin.”

“And yet,” said Quentin, “I find you in correspondence with those very officers by whom your brother was done to
death, for it was one of them who directed me where to meet with you — the same, doubtless, who procured yonder ladies
your services as a guide.”

“What can we do?” answered Hayraddin, gloomily. “These men deal with us as the sheepdogs do with the flock, they
protect us for a while, drive us hither and thither at their pleasure, and always end by guiding us to the
shambles.”

Quentin had afterwards occasion to learn that the Bohemian spoke truth in this particular, and that the Provost
guard, employed to suppress the vagabond bands by which the kingdom was infested, entertained correspondence among
them, and forbore, for a certain time, the exercise of their duty, which always at last ended in conducting their
allies to the gallows. This is a sort of political relation between thief and officer, for the profitable exercise of
their mutual professions, which has subsisted in all countries, and is by no means unknown to our own.

Durward, parting from the guide, fell back to the rest of the retinue, very little satisfied with the character of
Hayraddin, and entertaining little confidence in the professions of gratitude which he had personally made to him. He
proceeded to sound the other two men who had been assigned him for attendants, and he was concerned to find them stupid
and as unfit to assist him with counsel, as in the rencounter they had shown themselves reluctant to use their
weapons.

“It is all the better,” said Quentin to himself, his spirit rising with the apprehended difficulties of his
situation, “that lovely young lady shall owe all to me. What one hand — ay, and one head can do — methinks I can boldly
count upon. I have seen my father’s house on fire, and he and my brothers lying dead amongst the flames — I gave not an
inch back, but fought it out to the last. Now I am two years older, and have the best and fairest cause to bear me well
that ever kindled mettle within a brave man’s bosom.”

Acting upon this resolution, the attention and activity which Quentin bestowed during the journey had in it
something that gave him the appearance of ubiquity. His principal and most favourite post was of course by the side of
the ladies, who, sensible of his extreme attention to their safety, began to converse with him in almost the tone of
familiar friendship, and appeared to take great pleasure in the naivete, yet shrewdness, of his conversation. Yet
Quentin did not suffer the fascination of this intercourse to interfere with the vigilant discharge of his duty.

If he was often by the side of the Countesses, labouring to describe to the natives of a level country the Grampian
mountains, and, above all, the beauties of Glen Houlakin, he was as often riding with Hayraddin in the front of the
cavalcade, questioning him about the road and the resting places, and recording his answers in his mind, to ascertain
whether upon cross examination he could discover anything like meditated treachery. As often again he was in the rear,
endeavouring to secure the attachment of the two horsemen by kind words, gifts, and promises of additional recompense,
when their task should be accomplished.

In this way they travelled for more than a week, through bypaths and unfrequented districts, and by circuitous
routes, in order to avoid large towns. Nothing remarkable occurred, though they now and then met strolling gangs of
Bohemians, who respected them, as under the conduct of one of their tribe — straggling soldiers, or perhaps banditti,
Who deemed their party too strong to be attacked — or parties of the Marechaussee 123, as they would now be termed, whom Louis, who searched the wounds of the land with steel and
cautery, employed to suppress the disorderly bands which infested the interior. These last suffered them to pursue,
their way unmolested by virtue of a password with which Quentin had been furnished for that purpose by the King
himself.

Their resting places were chiefly the monasteries, most of which were obliged by the rules of their foundation to
receive pilgrims, under which character the ladies travelled, with hospitality and without any troublesome inquiries
into their rank and character, which most persons of distinction were desirous of concealing while in the discharge of
their vows. The pretence of weariness was usually employed by the Countesses of Croye as an excuse for instantly
retiring to rest, and Quentin, as their majordomo, arranged all that was necessary betwixt them and their entertainers,
with a shrewdness which saved them all trouble, and an alacrity that failed not to excite a corresponding degree of
good will on the part of those who were thus sedulously attended to.

One circumstance gave Quentin peculiar trouble, which was the character and nation of his guide, who, as a heathen
and an infidel vagabond, addicted besides to occult arts (the badge of all his tribe), was often looked upon as a very
improper guest for the holy resting places at which the company usually halted, and was not in consequence admitted
within even the outer circuit of their walls, save with extreme reluctance. This was very embarrassing, for, on the one
hand, it was necessary to keep in good humour a man who was possessed of the secret of their expedition, and, on the
other, Quentin deemed it indispensable to maintain a vigilant though secret watch on Hayraddin’s conduct, in order
that, as far as might be, he should hold no communication with any one without being observed. This of course was
impossible, if the Bohemian was lodged without the precincts of the convent at which they stopped, and Durward could
not help thinking that Hayraddin was desirous of bringing about this latter arrangement for, instead of keeping himself
still and quiet in the quarters allotted to him, his conversation, tricks, and songs were at the same time so
entertaining to the novices and younger brethren, and so unedifying in the opinion of the seniors of the fraternity,
that, in more cases than one, it required all the authority, supported by threats, which Quentin could exert over him,
to restrain his irreverent and untimeous jocularity, and all the interest he could make with the Superiors, to prevent
the heathen hound from being thrust out of the doors. He succeeded, however, by the adroit manner in which he
apologized for the acts of indecorum committed by their attendant, and the skill with which he hinted the hope of his
being brought to a better sense of principles and behaviour, by the neighbourhood of holy relics, consecrated
buildings, and, above all, of men dedicated to religion.

But upon the tenth or twelfth day of their journey, after they had entered Flanders, and were approaching the town
of Namur, all the efforts of Quentin became inadequate to suppress the consequences of the scandal given by his heathen
guide. The scene was a Franciscan convent, and of a strict and reformed order, and the Prior a man who afterwards died
in the odour of sanctity. After rather more than the usual scruples (which were indeed in such a case to be expected)
had been surmounted, the obnoxious Bohemian at length obtained quarters in an out house inhabited by a lay brother, who
acted as gardener. The ladies retired to their apartment, as usual, and the Prior, who chanced to have some distant
alliances and friends in Scotland, and who was fond of hearing foreigners tell of their native countries, invited
Quentin, with whose mien and conduct he seemed much pleased, to a slight monastic refection in his own cell. Finding
the Father a man of intelligence, Quentin did not neglect the opportunity of making himself acquainted with the state
of affairs in the country of Liege, of which, during the last two days of their journey, he had heard such reports as
made him very apprehensive for the security of his charge during the remainder of their route, nay, even of the
Bishop’s power to protect them, when they should be safely conducted to his residence. The replies of the Prior were
not very consolatory.

He said that the people of Liege were wealthy burghers, who, like Jeshurun 124 of old, had waxed fat and kicked — that they were uplifted in heart because of their wealth and
their privileges — that they had divers disputes with the Duke of Burgundy, their liege lord, upon the subject of
imports and immunities and that they had repeatedly broken out into open mutiny, whereat the Duke was so much incensed,
as being a man of a hot and fiery nature, that he had sworn, by Saint George, on the next provocation, he would make
the city of Liege like to the desolation of Babylon125 and the downfall of
Tyre126, a hissing and a reproach to the whole territory of Flanders.

“And he is a prince by all report likely to keep such a vow,” said Quentin, “so the men of Liege will probably
beware how they give him occasion.”

“It were to be so hoped,” said the Prior, “and such are the prayers of the godly in the land, who would not that the
blood of the citizens were poured forth like water, and that they should perish, even as utter castaways, ere they make
their peace with Heaven. Also the good Bishop labours night and day to preserve peace, as well becometh a servant of
the altar, for it is written in Holy Scripture, Beati pacifici. But” — Here the good Prior stopped, with a deep
sigh.

Quentin modestly urged the great importance of which it was to the ladies whom he attended, to have some assured
information respecting the internal state of the country, and what an act of Christian charity it would be, if the
worthy and reverend Father would enlighten them upon that subject.

“It is one,” said the Prior, “on which no man speaks with willingness, for those who speak evil of the powerful,
etiam in cubiculo 127, may find that a winged thing shall carry the matter
to his ears. Nevertheless, to render you, who seem an ingenuous youth, and your ladies, who are devout votaresses
accomplishing a holy pilgrimage, the little service that is in my power, I will be plain with you.”

He then looked cautiously round and lowered his voice, as if afraid of being overheard.

“The people of Liege,” he said, “are privily instigated to their frequent mutinies by men of Belial 128, who pretend, but, as I hope, falsely, to have commission to that effect from
our most Christian King, whom, however, I hold to deserve that term better than were consistent with his thus
disturbing the peace of a neighbouring state. Yet so it is, that his name is freely used by those who uphold and
inflame the discontents at Liege. There is, moreover, in the land, a nobleman of good descent, and fame in warlike
affairs, but otherwise, so to speak, Lapis offensionis et petra scandali — and a stumbling block of offence to the
countries of Burgundy and Flanders. His name is William de la Marck.”

“Called William with the Beard,” said the young Scot, “or the Wild Boar of Ardennes?”

“And rightly so called, my son,” said the Prior, “because he is as the wild boar of the forest, which treadeth down
with his hoofs and rendeth with his tusks. And he hath formed to himself a band of more than a thousand men, all, like
himself, contemners of civil and ecclesiastical authority, and holds himself independent of the Duke of Burgundy, and
maintains himself and his followers by rapine and wrong, wrought without distinction upon churchmen and laymen.
Imposuit manus in Christos Domini — he hath stretched forth his hand upon the anointed of the Lord, regardless of what
is written, ‘Touch not mine anointed, and do my prophets no wrong.’ — Even to our poor house did he send for sums of
gold and sums of silver, as a ransom for our lives, and those of our brethren, to which we returned a Latin
supplication, stating our inability to answer his demand, and exhorting him in the words of the preacher, Ne moliaris
amico tuo malum, cum habet in te fiduciam 129. Nevertheless, this Guilielmus
Barbatus, this William de la Marck, as completely ignorant of humane letters as of humanity itself, replied, in his
ridiculous jargon, Si non payatis, brulabo monasterium vestrum 130.”

“Of which rude Latin, however, you, my good father,” said the youth, “were at no loss to conceive the meaning?”

“Alas! my son,” said the Prior, “Fear and Necessity are shrewd interpreters, and we were obliged to melt down the
silver vessels of our altar to satisfy the rapacity of this cruel chief. May Heaven requite it to him seven fold!
Pereat improbus — Amen, amen, anathema esto! 131”

“I marvel,” said Quentin, “that the Duke of Burgundy, who is so strong and powerful, doth not bait this boar to
purpose, of whose ravages I have already heard so much.”

“Alas! my son,” said the Prior, “the Duke Charles is now at Peronne, assembling his captains of hundreds and his
captains of thousands, to make war against France, and thus, while Heaven hath set discord between the hearts of those
great princes, the country is misused by such subordinate oppressors. But it is in evil time that the Duke neglects the
cure of these internal gangrenes, for this William de la Marck hath of late entertained open communication with
Rouslaer and Pavillon, the chiefs of the discontented at Liege, and it is to be feared he will soon stir them up to
some desperate enterprise.”

“But the Bishop of Liege,” said Quentin, “he hath still power enough to subdue this disquieted and turbulent spirit
— hath he not, good father? Your answer to this question concerns me much.”

“The Bishop, my child,” replied the Prior, “hath the sword of Saint Peter, as well as the keys. He hath power as a
secular prince, and he hath the protection of the mighty House of Burgundy, he hath also spiritual authority as a
prelate, and he supports both with a reasonable force — of good soldiers and men at arms. This William de la Marck was
bred in his household, and bound to him by many benefits. But he gave vent, even in the court of the Bishop, to his
fierce and bloodthirsty temper, and was expelled thence for a homicide committed on one of the Bishop’s chief
domestics. From thenceforward, being banished from the good Prelate’s presence, he hath been his constant and
unrelenting foe, and now, I grieve to say, he hath girded his loins, and strengthened his horn against him.”

“You consider, then, the situation of the worthy Prelate as being dangerous?” said Quentin, very, anxiously.

“Alas! my son,” said the good Franciscan, “what or who is there in this weary wilderness, whom we may not hold as in
danger? But Heaven forefend I should speak of the reverend Prelate as one whose peril is imminent. He has much
treasure, true counsellors, and brave soldiers, and, moreover, a messenger who passed hither to the eastward yesterday
saith that the Duke of Burgundy hath dispatched, upon the Bishop’s request, an hundred men at arms to his assistance.
This reinforcement, with the retinue belonging to each lance, are enough to deal with William de la Marck, on whose
name be sorrow! — Amen.”

At this crisis their conversation was interrupted by the Sacristan, who, in a voice almost inarticulate with anger,
accused the Bohemian of having practised the most abominable arts of delusion among the younger brethren. He had added
to their nightly meal cups of a heady and intoxicating cordial, of ten times the strength of the most powerful wine,
under which several of the fraternity had succumbed, and indeed, although the Sacristan had been strong to resist its
influence, they might yet see, from his inflamed countenance and thick speech, that even he, the accuser himself, was
in some degree affected by this unhallowed potation. Moreover, the Bohemian had sung songs of worldly vanity and impure
pleasures, he had derided the cord of Saint Francis, made jest of his miracles, and termed his votaries fools and lazy
knaves. Lastly, he had practised palmistry, and foretold to the young Father Cherubin that he was helped by a beautiful
lady, who should make him father to a thriving boy.

The Father Prior listened to these complaints for some time in silence, as struck with mute horror by their enormous
atrocity. When the Sacristan had concluded, he rose up, descended to the court of the convent, and ordered the lay
brethren, on pain of the worst consequences of spiritual disobedience, to beat Hayraddin out of the sacred precincts
with their broom staves and cart whips.

This sentence was executed accordingly, in the presence of Quentin Durward, who, however vexed at the occurrence,
easily saw that his interference would be of no avail.

The discipline inflicted upon the delinquent, notwithstanding the exhortations of the Superior, was more ludicrous
than formidable. The Bohemian ran hither and thither through the court, amongst the clamour of voices, and noise of
blows, some of which reached him not because purposely misaimed, others, sincerely designed for his person, were eluded
by his activity, and the few that fell upon his back and shoulders he took without either complaint or reply. The noise
and riot was the greater, that the inexperienced cudgel players, among whom Hayraddin ran the gauntlet, hit each other
more frequently than they did him, till at length, desirous of ending a scene which was more scandalous than edifying,
the Prior commanded the wicket to be flung open, and the Bohemian, darting through it with the speed of lightning, fled
forth into the moonlight. During this scene, a suspicion which Durward had formerly entertained, recurred with
additional strength. Hayraddin had, that very morning, promised to him more modest and discreet behaviour than he was
wont to exhibit, when they rested in a convent on their journey, yet he had broken his engagement, and had been even
more offensively obstreperous than usual. Something probably lurked under this, for whatever were the Bohemian’s
deficiencies, he lacked neither sense, nor, when he pleased, self command, and might it not be probable that he wished
to hold some communication, either with, his own horde or some one else, from which he was debarred in the course of
the day by the vigilance with which he was watched by Quentin, and had recourse to this stratagem in order to get
himself turned out of the convent?

No sooner did this suspicion dart once more through Quentin’s mind, than, alert as he always was in his motions, he
resolved to follow his cudgelled guide, and observe (secretly if possible) how he disposed of himself. Accordingly,
when the Bohemian fled, as already mentioned, out at the gate of the convent, Quentin, hastily explaining to the Prior
the necessity of keeping sight of his guide, followed in pursuit of him.

122 Mahoun: Mohammed. It was a remarkable feature of the character of
these wanderers that they did not, like the Jews whom they otherwise resembled in some particulars, possess or profess
any particular religion, whether in form or principle. They readily conformed, as far as might be required, with the
religion of any country in which they happened to sojourn, but they did not practise it more than was demanded of them.
. . . S.

125 Babylon: taken by Cyrus in 538 B. C. See Revelation xviii, 21: “A
mighty angel took up a stone . . . and cast it into the sea, saying, Thus with violence shall that great city
Babylon be thrown down, and shall be found no more.”

126 Tyre: conquered by Alexander the Great in 332 B. C. “I will make thee
a terror, and thou shalt be no more . . . yet shalt thou never be found again, saith the Lord God.” Ezekiel
xxvi, 21.

129 devise not evil against thy neighbour who dwelleth by thee in
security

130 if you do not pay, I will burn your monastery. A similar story is
told of the Duke of Vendome, who answered in this sort of macaronic Latin the classical expostulations of a German
convent against the imposition of a contribution. S.

131 let the wicked perish. Let him be anathema! ‘In pronouncing an
anathema against a person, the church excludes him from her communion; and he must, if he continue obstinate, perish
eternally.’ Cent. Dict.